The
deck of the Antonios K rattled and shook beneath my feet as the dark land
mass loomed larger through a summer sea haze. Against a bluish mountain
backdrop the outlines of buildings sharpened slowly as we drew nearer Europe’s
most mysterious country. For long Albania had been a totalitarian state
and, before that, the fiefdom of the shadowy King Zog. Few would choose
it for a sun-and-fun holiday, but things are slowly changing. As we juddered
towards Saranda, Albania’s southerly resort-port, a rash of blockhouses
came into focus, scattered across the mountainside. Closer in, they looked
like Iron Curtain tenements but as the haze thinned they revealed themselves
as the shells of new holiday hotels and apartments, almost all of them
only part-built.
The
Finnish girl, travelling with her mother, said that they looked the work
of a bored and monstrous child, who had no sooner begun one project than
he toddled off to start another. Finns were my companions for the day,
as well as Czechs, Germans and a couple of New Zealanders.
Almost half the party aboard the
Antonios K were, like me, British.
All were holidaymakers on the Greek
island of Corfu.We had come together from different resorts around the
island to this orange-painted tramp of a transport ship, drawn by the promise
of an “Albanian Experience” and a visit to the famous archaeological site
of Butrint. I had rejected the standard offerings of a plate-smashing Greek
Night, a mountain Jeep Safari and a Beach Bar-B-Q in favour of the Albanian
Experience, which promised something different and exciting but not too
demanding, an easy way to get a peek at a difficult country. Of guidebooks
there were few. I consulted the Lonely Planet web site later and found
that, after eulogies of Albanian highlights, there followed a long list
of travellers warnings that covered everything from unexploded munitions
armed assault and mobster assassinations.
None
of these, though, was likely in Saranda, the self-proclaimed “honeymoon
capital” of Albania. When I bought my ticket from the Golden Sun office,
the rep told me that Albanian day trips had been running each season since
1990, except when suspended because of political tension. They had, she
said “never lost anyone yet”. She added as an afterthought that a couple
had once stayed on there, to spend some time with missionaries of their
acquaintance, but they too eventually returned safely.
I scanned the bay of Saranda and
its high density housing immediately behind the triangle of sand that was
its beach. Tenements colonised a low headland beyond a petrol tanker, at
anchor in the bay and bare brown hills reared steeply behind. I searched
for any trace of honeymoon potential, and could see none. We edged towards
a quay of such advanced state of dilapidation that a single nudge from
bulky Antonios K would surely wreck it for good and all.
A pair of uniformed police, there
to check our passports, stood well back from the potential hazard as the
bow gate dropped with a great clattering of chains. Our motley group –
we had been rattling like peas in a drum aboard the spacious transporter
- filed off to the waiting bus, there to be addressed by Spiros, our guide
for the day.
Spiros
said we drive across town to a seashore restaurant – a distance that could
be walked easily in ten minutes - before continuing to Butrint. Obviously
we were to be coddled throughout our Albanian Experience.
So now I had arrived, in this country
that aroused curiosity and wariness in equal measures. I had tentatively
explored the streets around the waterfront restaurant, been invited to
purchase linen handcrafts from street vendors, and witnessed an altercation
that developed into a heated argument but stopped just short of an all-out
brawl. My fleeting impression was that this was a friendly place but volatile.
Soon I was back on the bus and on my way to Butrint, a UNESCO World Heritage
Site. Along the way we skirted a vast agricultural plain, created by draining
a marshland, the massive concrete culverts now cracked, the steel sluices
rusted, a showcase for failed 50s technology.
The ancient founders of Butrint
chose a strategic site – a low rise between a lake and loop in a river,
very close to the sea. Across the river a dusky plain extended to the encircling
mountains. It was a superbly sheltered port in a defensible position
that commanded the strait of Corfu – an important trade route in ancient
times. Spiros pointed-out the peculiarities of the site as we left the
shade of the rustling eucalyptus trees to begin our walking tour. Here
was an ancient wall of cyclopean stone, there an amphitheatre built by
the Romans. Above were medieval fortifications and, in a magical gloaming,
the ruin of a seven-vaulted Byzantine church. Because of its location,
Butrint had been coveted and extended throughout the ages and it is this
near-continuous occupation that makes Butrint a priceless asset to science.
Even as we scrambled, wide-eyed among the ruins (actually most of the Brits
drank fizzy drinks in the shade while complaining about the heat) young
archaeologists from the University of East Anglia emerged from the ancient
sunken port, covered in silt to the waist.
There was a break for lunch at the
same fancy waterfront restaurant on the way back, where the buffet included
Greek-like salads and meats augmented by rather more Balkan-style (and
very tasty) boiled vegetables. Rather than hang around for the bus I elected
to walk the short distance to the port and weave my way between the side
streets and the waterfront. Small children would come up to me and shout
“Spik Inglish!” in a forthright way. The older buildings were uniformly
drab, crumbling from a lack of maintenance, an odd contrast to the unplanned,
unfinished modern apartments that littered the surrounding coast.
The absence of parks and civic spaces
was noticeable. Money had clearly found its way here - there was a five-star
hotel next to our restaurant - but its distribution was random. I found
a corner bar, one that was patronised by locals and was, at the same time,
quite presentable. I purchased a large beer, a Premium Tirana Pils, for
170 Lek, pretty cheap by any standards. I sat outside and watched the world
go by, mainly in the form of street moneychangers. I meandered down
to the port by way of the beach, crowded with children playing ball. Saranda
– and I do not think I am being unfair – does not amount to much, beyond
being generally friendly and very different to your average seaside resort.
Back on the boat, the British were mainly complaining about Butrint “I
wouldn’t have gone if I knew we would have to do all that walking” was
the gist of it, although they seemed generally happy with the upmarket
facilities that the Saranda restaurant offered. The noticeably slimmer
Czechs, Finns and Germans were closer to my wavelength – fabulous ancient
site, awesome landscapes, but with a question mark over the desirability
of spending any length of time in a place like Saranda. Perhaps I should
leave the last word with a pony-tailed Albanian whom I met at Butrint and
who spoke drawling English like a rock band roadie: “Things are changing
here, you know? Give Albania a chance”.
The following
articles are Richard's previous articles for the magazine:
The
deck of the Antonios K rattled and shook beneath my feet as the dark land
mass loomed larger through a summer sea haze. Against a bluish mountain
backdrop the outlines of buildings sharpened slowly as we drew nearer Europe’s
most mysterious country. For long Albania had been a totalitarian state
and, before that, the fiefdom of the shadowy King Zog. Few would choose
it for a sun-and-fun holiday, but things are slowly changing. As we juddered
towards Saranda, Albania’s southerly resort-port, a rash of blockhouses
came into focus, scattered across the mountainside. Closer in, they looked
like Iron Curtain tenements but as the haze thinned they revealed themselves
as the shells of new holiday hotels and apartments, almost all of them
only part-built.
